Casablanca
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: Takes place after Need to Know. HouseWilson. Told from Jimmy's POV, as he cotemplates the movie, House, life, and everything else. I'm not sure if it's finished or not. Drop me a line.
1. Casablanca

"I'm saying it because it's true. Inside of us, we both know you belong with Victor. You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life," Rick, Casablanca

The television flashes nosily in the background. Discarded cardboard packages containing takeout, disposable chopsticks, and empty beer bottles litter the coffee table. He's lying back against the couch with his feet up on the table. He's half asleep from a combination of the booze the MSG and his pills.

I can't bring myself to hate him. Despite everything we've been through, after everything he's done to me, I still love him. He's my life, and I'm not sure I can help him. Part of me isn't even sure that I want to. I'm not even positive that I'm angry about this latest stunt of his. What he did. . . I can't imagine too many men would ever turn down sex. And pushing her away like that kept her from shattering him and in the process Mark. A lot of people would consider him a hero but they would be wrong. He doesn't care about Mark, he can hardly bring himself to care about Stacy, and sometimes—almost everyday—I'm not even sure whether or not he cares about me.

"There's nothing heroic about what you've done. You're not protecting him or her. Your not even protecting yourself." I want to say more but House cuts me off. He doesn't actually say anything, just pushes the volume button on the remote so many times it makes me wonder how long before the neighbors complain. The movie ends and the credits roll. He shuts off the TV and heads towards the bedroom. Nothing is said but I know I'm supposed to follow.

He tosses his shirt onto the floor and then sits on the bed to start taking off his shoes. I sit by his side and take his hand in mine. He yanks it away and shoots me a demanding look. Without a word he orders me to strip. There's the usual five minutes of frantic confused fumbling as we try to find a position that will cause him the least amount of pain.

Then we roll and tumble between the sheets, kissing, thrusting, tugging, sucking, pushing, pulling, and every other sweaty, sticky ing in the English language and even a few more. All of this is done without either of us saying a word. There are grunts, and squeals, and moans, and sighs, but that's all fairly common place in fucking.

Afterwards he counts out at least one pill more than he ought to be taking in a single sitting, and chews them all. Then he gives me another look and without saying a word, tells me that I can speak again.

"Do you ever think about that movie," he blurts out before I get a chance to say anything.

"No more than I think about any movie." I stop mid sentence as he gets up and goes to the bathroom. Although weather it is to clean or relieve himself I cant be sure. I say nothing and simply wait for his return.

"Say would you happen to have anymore of that pot, would you?" he calls from the bathroom.

"I told you it was a patients. You know, most people would consider this obsessive." There's no point in finishing though. He's not going to listen. I learned a long time ago that he's not going to change no matter what I say or do. That's just it. Greg is Greg. House is House. He's always been that way and always will be.

So there you have it. My life summed up in his lies, and his pain and his misery. When he comes back from the bathroom his brain has traveled back to the movie. Nothing like a couple Vicodin to clear your mind and narrow your thought process.

"You don't wonder what happens to everyone after the story is over? You know, Rick, Louis, Victor," he stops but I know there's more. There's always more.

"Ilsa? No. I don't wonder, but that's just me. The move ends. It's an ending. It doesn't mater that we don't know everything. Nobody cares and if they do they just assume that everyone lives as happily ever after as humanly possible."

"Do you think she's happy? I mean of course she had to choose to leave with him. She didn't even really choose, but do you think she's happy?"

Now how the hell am I supposed to answer that?


	2. three words

I want to apologize personally for the fact that this chapter is a little OOC for both House and Wilson. Still in Dr. James Wilson's POV, and unfortunately the three-word phrase I am most fond of rears its ugly head once again. In case you are wondering it's I love you but don't worry House is not the one who says it.

"It's just a move! It doesn't mean anything," I say at least, hoping he'll just shut up for a while. This is exactly what I was worried about. Greg and I have been friends for what seems like forever now and lovers for—you know I never stopped to count. It started some point between when Stacy left the first time and now. Somewhere between my going to his place in order to avoid going home and us hiding out all over the hospital so he wouldn't have to work, things just sort of built up and then we just—I don't know.

I've tried so many times to convince my self that it is just about the sex but I know better. I've been in love with him for years I had almost even worked up the nerve to tell him when _she _waltzes right on back into our lives. Then he moped around for a while, then he got pissy, then he got lovesick and then he decided to try and seduce _her_. Well whatever happened it doesn't really matter because I knew all along that _her_ being around was a bad idea and now he's even more of a mess than before.

He can kid himself and say that he isn't going to miss _her_ or even care, and that he has control over everything because he was the one to end it but House is an idiot when it comes to things about House. I think I'm going to kill her. Or maybe I'll just kill him. It would certainly be easier for me to get over all of this if he were just dead. He comes back from the bathroom and climbs back into bed.

"I was trying to use the movie as a metaphor. I thought that you of all people might be intelligent enough to figure that one out."

"You don't want me to say what I have to say about the two of you because what I'm about to say can only cause us both pain."

"Spill it, Jimmy. It's late and I don't feel like sitting around all night talking about Casablanca. So answer the question."

"You and Stacy can not be together, for more than five minutes at a time without making each other miserable. The sex can be monumental, greater than anything in the universe. You could love her; she could love you. It doesn't matter. You can't be together."

"Technically you're still dodging my question. I know that she and I couldn't be together and that's why I let her go. That's why I told her to leave when you and I and the whole damn world knows that it is the last thing I wanted."

"Oh shut up. You are so full of it. You didn't let her go because you're a hero or you care too much about Stacy to hurt her or to save yourself the pain of getting dumped by her again. You can't stand to be happy. You like being miserable because you think that it makes you a martyr or something."

"Get out of here," he says quietly and then turns over on his side making a soft sighing sound.

"I'm not walking out on you just to fulfill another one of your stupid theories that everyone is going to walk out and make you miserable."

"So your plan is to stay here and try to make me miserable? That's just great. And what makes you think that you know everything anyway?"

"I don't have to know everything to know that I know you. I've cared about since we met. I know you think that is stupid but shut up for five minutes and let me say what I have to say alright?" I wait but he doesn't say anything. He's putting. Pretty soon he'll go back to angry and we'll be screaming at each other. Oh well at least he's predictable again. This I can deal with. No matter how much it hurts.

"If you wanted me to answer that you shouldn't have told me to shut up," he says sounding remarkably like a toddler, knowing that he's right but only saying that because he wants to rub it in my face. I'm not doing this. This is the wrong time to do this. He's not even going to hear it. And it will be the end.

"I love you. Okay? There I said it; go ahead. Laugh. Tear me down. Just stop asking me about her. Please. I can't take it any longer."

"I was wondering when you where going to say that," he says switching the light off and pulling the covers over his body."

"Say what?" _Nothing._ He doesn't say anything. He just lays there pretending to be asleep but I know even he can't fall asleep that fast. Then he turns to face me and even in the darkness I can see him smile. "Goodnight Jimmy."


	3. Morning After

"There's got to be a morning after. We're moving closer to the shore. I know we'll be there by tomorrow and we'll escape the darkness. We won't be searchin' any more," Maureen McGovern. (It's lame I know but I like lame).

Author's note: Please excuse my horrendous mathematic skills.

Whenever I wake up here, at his house, it always takes me a while to figure out where I am and even then I still don't always feel right. I usually wake up before House in the morning, unless he's having a bad day, unless the pain is worse than usual. As soon as I open my eyes, I know that things are not good. It's not surprising. Yesterday was rough on him, in everyway, and so today he feels like shit. He's already up when I open my eyes.

Not only that but he's sitting up in bed, holding the alarm clock in his hands, staring at it, fully awake. Even though I'm just waking up I know exactly what's going on. He's counting down the time (seconds?) until he can take another pill or two. I watch his lips for a minute trying to see what number he's at but Greg turns to face me before I can figure it out on my own.

"I can't talk right now. GO brush your teeth and make some coffee. Then you can come back and stare at me all you like." I yawn standing up and stretch. My eyes are heavy. I'm tired, and I wonder how long I've been asleep for.

"What time is it," I ask halfway between the toilet and the bed. At first I don't think he's going to answer me.

"Seven minutes and thirty nine- no 37, 35—30 seconds." He says continuing to count under his breath. This is the only time House is ever boring. When the pain gets this bad he can focus on one thing and only one thing, the pain. I do as he said, checking the clock in the kitchen to discover that it is just before 8:00 am.

Sometimes I wonder If Julie ever thinks about where I am when I stay out all night. Most of the time I don't really care. Despite my best efforts I make it back to the bedroom before he's taken his pills. He gives me a dirty look when I sit next to him on the bed. He keeps up counting and for the most part he just ignores me.

"You know some people would consider this kind of behavior, extreme. To say the least," He cuts me off by popping the top off of his pills. Then he takes out the pills, puts them on the table. He takes his time, putting the cap back on, putting the bottle on the nightstand. Finally he picks up the pills, probably more than a minute or two too soon, but who's counting, and he chews them. "Please don't do that," I beg.

"Sorry. Forgot. Now what was that you where saying. I'm all ears. Well technically I've only got two of them. Hang on that doesn't make sense. I cant think straight yet." I know better than to argue with him about the fact that he thinks being stoned makes him think straight.

"Why don't we go have breakfast? The coffees just about ready and I think you still have a couple of those Cherry flavored Poptarts left." Right now I'm trying to avoid the conversation, the one I know we're bound to have at some point today. After what I said last night, it's inevitable. Fortunately he's not in the mood for a serious conversation. I watch as he contemplates my question. For most people that sort of thing is simple. They say yes to the breakfast you've suggested, or they tell you they want something else. If you've just woken them up they might want to sleep some more, but he's not thinking about that.

House would be more than happy—well not happy but, something—with Poptarts. He's thinking about steps. The average person has no idea how far apart things really are. They know it's about .1 miles from their apartment to where they pack their car. Somewhere in the neighborhood of .3 miles from the parking lot to their office, that kind of stuff. Those people who wear pedometers know approximately how many steps they take on any given day, but those results are skewed. You stand up, sit down, drive in a car, walk up the stairs, or even bump into somebody it fucks up the number.

Greg knows exactly how far apart every item in his life is from any other given item. In steps. 36 steps to the kitchen, 60 something to the door, 179 from to his parking spot outside the apartment. There are an infinite combination of steps and places to walk in Gregory House's life. On days like this, the worst kind, he contemplates whether or not to go to the bathroom in order to keep the steps down. Granted he's not going to shit his pants, but at the same time he wants to be sure he doesn't expend any more energy than absolutely necessary.

"I don't know," he admits after three or four minutes. "Too far. I've got to go all the way to the kitchen, then come back and get dressed and then go to the car. That's almost 500 steps before I've even left home."

"You could always get dressed and then go into the kitchen. IT saves you two trips." But he isn't listening to me. The pills just took their affect and he's thoroughly enjoying where he is. "If you promise to eat at that desk, I'll bring everything in here."

"If you're going to go through all that trouble you might as well serve me breakfast in bed especially if you _love_ me so much." He chuckles. Great. Just perfect. Nothing has ever come back to bite me in the ass nearly as much as this has and it's only been one day. Why did I do that? Why did I tell him?

"Because. You'll get crumbs all over the bed," I say knowing that if I ignore his comment that's probably the best way to deal with him, for now. House gives me this look like 'it's my bed, I don't care.' "I don't want to have to sleep on sheets full of Poptart crumbs." He eases his way up from the bed and onto the floor. Then he ignores the steps and makes his way to the kitchen.

Once he's seated I pour coffee and stick the Poptarts in the toaster. I almost expected him to say something along the lines of 'who says you'll even be sleeping in that bed,' or something equally snarky. He eats in silence, which is really weird. Greg _never_ shuts up. It figures that the only time I really want him to talk, he won't say a word. I know if he's mad at me or moping about the Stacy thing, or he might just be fucking with my mind.

He knows how nervous I am now that I've told him that I love him and he knows there are at least a million ways he can use it to torture me. Right now he could be plotting my demise, thinking of a way to humiliate me or he could just be acting like his normal grouchy annoying self. It is completely possible that House is simply miserable. Although, usually he talks incessantly so as to spread as much of that misery around as possible. He finishes eating and leaves the plate, cup, crumbs, napkins and everything on the table.

Sometimes I wonder what might happen if I weren't around. Would he eventually clean things up, or does he just do this because he knows I'll clean up after him? I clear off the table and then go back to he bedroom. He's in the shower and I decide not to interrupt. The clock says 8:36. Which means that I don't have time to go "home" and before work to shower and change. Luckily Greg lets me keep an extra change off clothes at his place for times like these.

He's in there another fifteen minutes and I realize that there is no way I can shower here and get to work on time. I could have go in with him but I didn't want to deal with that right now. When Greg steps out of the bathroom he stands there stark naked, dry with his hair standing on end. He looks at me, still in my boxers and laughs.

"It's a nice gesture but I don't think Cuddy'll go for it. Not on you anyway. She only has eyes for me." At least he's talking again, even if it is annoying.

"You couldn't cut your shower short by five minutes so I might have a chance to clean up before work. I smell like—," I let my voice trial off. There's no point. HE isn't listening.

"You could have joined me. There's plenty of room for two. You should know that. This isn't your first morning here."

"Listen Greg. About last night, I mean about what I said. I um-the thing is." Jesus this is harder than I thought it would be.

"Wait a minute I need to be absolutely clear on this. Which thing that you said are we talking about? Would this be the telling me that I enjoy being miserable, the whole speech about Stacy or the you getting all sappy and romantic and telling me that you were in love with me," he asks laughing. He isn't being bitchy or sad or anything like that. In fact, of course, he's taking it all as a joke. Granted that's how he copes with everything. At least he's somewhat back to normal.

"The last one. Look um, about that—I didn't—what I mean is—I—Jesus. I don't know if I can do this. What I mean. What I'm trying to say, um."

"Don't try and take it back. You and I both know perfectly well that you meant every one of those three little words."

"Yeah, but I—what—I'm going to call Cuddy. Neither of us is coming in today. WE need to talk."

"Do you really think you can pull it off?" he asks already formulating plans to try this again sometime.

"Just today. I'll makeup some story about you needing a day or two to deal with Stacy leaving and that you'd be even worse than normal if you did come in."

"Damn. I was hoping you'd come up with something a little more original or at least interesting."

"Fine. I'll tell her you have Ebola. But it's not going to work more than once, and no mater what I say everyone's going to think you're not coming in because of her."

"Just make the call already. I'm going to the couch. I don't care what people think. Especially if it means I can keep off my feet today." And that's the end of it. I go to the phone and make the call. Then I just stop and stand there. I'm not sure if I'm ready to have this conversation yet. I shouldn't have said anything. What's going to happen to us now?


	4. what we talk about

"I was going to tell you about something. I mean, I was going to prove a point. You see, this happened a few months ago, but it's still going on right now, and it ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love," Raymond Carver

I don't think I have any new warnings on this chapter. Another cliffhanger ending, you know, but that's just me.

"So, what did she say," Greg asks when I return from the phone call. Convincing Cuddy that not having Greg around today is a good idea was fairly simple. He causes enough trouble on normal days, these kinds of days he's well, lets just say she knows what she's dealing with. Frankly nobody wants to be around House when he gets like this, not even me. I watch as he leans back into the chair, eyes half closed and mouth open. He doesn't drool, wouldn't ever do that. But I know he took an extra pill or two when I wasn't looking. He's not even ashamed. Not that I expected him to be ashamed. I've known Greg to long to expect much of anything from him.

"She said that you have to do two extra hours of clinic duty to make up for not coming in today."

"I'll make Chase do, 'um," he says interrupting. Then he laughs. "What? You're making that face. I don't even have to look at you to now but you're doing it. You're making that face."

"She also wants you to come in at 9:00 tomorrow," I say with a small sigh. _Please don't let him turn this into a fight._ _Please don't yell. Please don't yell. _

"9:00? Nine—o—clock. Hey? She didn't specifically say nine AM, did she? Damn. She's getting better at this."

"She knows you well enough not to leave an opening like that. You'll be fine. It doesn't matter. I don't think she actually excepts you to be on time or anything."

"Because she _knows_ me so well? Look I know you want to have a little heart to heart chat but can you give me like half an hour?"

"No, I wont give you half an hour to just sit there and be stoned. We need to talk and I want to do this now."

"And what if I don't feel like talking?" he whines. Well actually it was more of a grunt. "Look you can relax. I'm not going to hold you to anything."

"That's not what I wanted to talk about. When I said that I loved you. I—I meant it. And you just laughed at me."

"First of all I already knew that you felt that way and I didn't laugh at you. I said goodnight. It was late. I was tired."

"I don't know why I do this to myself. What is it exactly that you do for me? I feel like—I put everything I have into this and you give me nothing." He bolts up in the chair and then his eyes fly open.

"You put everything into this relationship? Most nights I don't even see you, and the other times you leave after we—you leave. And you call that everything?"

"You don't care and even if you did care you would understand that I am married."

"Oh just barely. You're no more married than I am. Besides, believe it or not, it does bother me."

"Fine. I'll spend the night more often. Is that what you really want? But—wait a minute. Wait a minute that's not even the point. I can't believe you. I'm trying to have a serious conversation here."

"Why? This is me we're talking about here. Why would you ever try and have a serious conversation, with me?"

"Because I love you! I really do—and if you're going to just—look at me—say something. If you're going to just sit there and not do anything. I need to know I f I should just cut my losses." There's a fraction of a fraction of a second there when he actually looks scared, or hurt, or I don't know what, but it looks like he cares. But it's fleeting and then he just shrugs. Now, he looks at me and there's absolutely nothing there. I think I might die.

"Fine. Leave. You know, according to your theory this is exactly the way that I want things to go,"

"I'm sorry if I bruised your ego, but I need a response. I have told you at least three times that I'm in love with you and you have said nothing." There's a pause. A long one in which neither of us says a word. He doesn't look at me and I know better than to try and look at him. "Say something. Tell me I'm a fool, or an idiot, or something. Say what every you want, but just say something. Anything. Please."


	5. Feeling

"How can I have feeling when I  
don't know  
if it's a feeling?  
How can I feel something if I  
just don't know how to feel?  
How can I have feelings when  
my feelings have always been  
denied—," John Lennon

No new warnings, except that this has a cliffhanger like every chapter before it. Gotta love that about me, I know just how to leave you guys wanting more. This is a little OOC for both House and Wilson, but you know that happens sometimes. We are all a little OOC sometimes.

I should not have done that. I mean, of course, I had to. I've wanted to talk to him like that for—a long time. I've always wanted him to know how I feel. I want—I don't know what I want but the way I went about that—now he has everything he'll ever need on me. Begging—oh man—he just . . . He looks at me again, along drown out look.

House puts both hands on his knee and looks at the space between us on the floor. There is a good two minutes before anything else happens. And then I realize he's trying to get up. I know better than to offer him a hand. He just looks so— . . .helpless. He stands up, part way, but falls back onto the chair, hitch his breath and writhing in pain. House looks away, and after a minute or two his hand brushes up against his face.

I watch as he sits there trying to keep from crying and then it all stops. He leans back in the chair rubbing his leg. I know that as soon as he can, he'll try that again. I could go over there. That is of course what I should do. , But I'm not sure if it would make him angrier. I have to take that chance. I can't keep watching this. I know he wouldn't even bother, except that he knows how difficult it is for me to see this.

"Something," he says blandly as I sit down on the armrest of his chair. And then he adds, "anything."

"If you stood even half a chance I'd be the crap out of you right here and now." Naturally this comment makes him laugh. So I put my hand on his good knee and fake a smile.

"I would totally kick your ass," he smirks. I know what he's doing. He wants to start a fight, even if it's one that we laugh through. He doesn't want to have this conversation. If he could, House would not do anything except argue. This is certainly easier for him. He figures that if he can get me to yell at him or laugh, he can avoid everything.

"No. You couldn't. Now say something real, or I'll hide your pills." That's pretty much the only thing I can use to threaten him with. He growls and bares his teeth. "I mean it. I am 100 serious.

"I don't know what you want me to say. I, you know . . . I swear you do this stuff just to torture me." I hit him. I know it's wrong, and I know I shouldn't do it, but my mind just snaps and I hit him. It's pretty pathetic, just a girlish slap across the face, but I do hit him. He stares at me for a moment, completely in shock and neither of us is sure how to respond.

"I'm sorry. No. I'm not, actually. You deserved that. What do I want you to say? Well I want . . .I want you to tell me the truth. Do you, or don't you love me? I need . . . I need the truth."

"I guess you're in luck then. Because the truth just so happens to be my specialty. One of the many." Of course he has to be a smart ass. I think this might be it, I ever would have thought that with everything we've been through Stacy would be the one to ruin everything. Although to be perfectly fair I cant blame all of this on her.

This is almost entirely House's fault. Sometimes I really hate him, but what huts the most are all the times that I don't. All of the times when he hurts me and I just let it slide. I need him, and what's more, I think he needs me, but I'm not sure weather or not I can do this anymore. At the same time I am absolutely terrified of what this might do to him.

"I need you to stop for five minutes, because I can't keep on doing this. So either say what I need to hear or . . ." I cant finish that sentence out loud. I feel sick. He sighs and there's another long, silent pause where we just stare at each other. "You sick bastard," I blurt out before I can stop myself.

"I don't know. That's the truth James. I don't know if I love you. I don't know if I love anyone. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? You're not the only one who wants it to stop. Alright?" Then he forces himself to stand up, despite the pain, and limps out of the room. And I don't know weather or not I should follow him.


	6. pain

"It's not what you thought;  
when you first began it.  
You got what you want;  
now you can hardly stand it though," (Aimee Mann).

/same warnings as before/

Even though I can't see House from here, I know exactly where he is. From the kitchen I can hear cabinets opening and closing, glasses clinking, and then what sounds like water being poured into a glass, only I know it's not water. A chair scratches across the floor and he sits down. He's in there drinking and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Time passes, I'm not sure how much, but I can hear House pick up the bottle twice more. Then he calls out to me. I know this isn't going to be good even before he opens his mouth.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" he shouts to me. I could leave. It would be easy. All I have to do is stand up and walk out the door. Greg will pass out in an hour, either in bed or on the sofa and he wont even notice that I'm not here. Maybe that's what hurts the most. I stand up with every intention of leaving but he must have heard me. As I get to the door I hear his chair moving again. It's followed by an agonizing scream and a loud crash. I run to the kitchen. House is lying on the color clutching his leg and sighing. His face is red and his eyes are wet with pain.

"That is why," I say in response to his earlier question. For a while he doesn't try to get up and I don't offer to help him. There's even an instant when I consider beating the crap out of him. But I know it wouldn't do any good. It takes Greg nearly an hour to get onto his feet. First he just lies there feeling sorry for himself. Next he pulls himself into a sitting position and waits to get used to that situation. I can't even imagine how much his head must be spinning. From here, House puts his weight on his good leg and carefully positions his weight on his knee. Next there is the long procedure of pulling his body from the floor. He grabs the chair for support.

"Hold that," he orders meaning of course the chair. I've been through this enough time to know that he can get up by himself as long as the chair doesn't fall over. That's what I'm here for. When House finally gets to his feet I cant decide if I should hug or hit him. He stares at me angrily as if my witnessing this is some sort of an attack or insult. "I didn't need you to come in here and save me."

"I know. You don't need anything from anyone. I get that, all right? Now sit down and shut up?" I sit down across from him at the table. He stares at me for a while and nothing happens. Figures he would actually take my suggestion to shut up seriously. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey again but I pick it up and take it across the room. House just sort of grunts. "Do you think anything is broken?"

"No. I'm fine. Don't give me that look. I am fine. Really. Shut up!"

"People who are fine don't fall over onto the floor. They don't—oh forget it. I'm sick of this. What? Why are you—what is that?"

"Where you even listening when I was talking before or do you just automatically assume that I'm just full of it. Didn't you hear what I said before?"

"Yeah. That was great, or it would have been. If you hadn't of gone off and gotten drunk afterwards. If you hate being this way as much as you say you do, then you have to at least try and change." I put my hand on his, but he pulls away.

"I'm—listen Jimmy—I—what I'm trying to say is—I'm doing all that I an. And maybe that's not much. I know I'm a jerk. But that's just who I am. You of all people should know that."

"What I know, is that you are—there's more there. I know that because I've seen it. You just can't be bothered to—just tell me the truth. Am I wasting my time here? Can we work this out or can I—," I cant bring myself to say it. He just sits there at first and I'm not sure if he's jerking me around or if he's really thinking things over. He reaches for my hand and I give it to him. House pulls me into a rough hug. You know, that thing where one guy hugs another guy but he also sort of hits him on the back. Then he pulls himself up and heads to the bedroom. I follow him but Greg just lays down exhausted. "I need an answer," I tell him. Frankly I can't do this anymore. I love him. I always will, but this just hurts too much. I should have known better. God only knows how long passes, but finally he speaks again.

"I'll try," he says. "I'm not promising to change. I'm not promising anything and I'm not going to—I'll try. Okay?"

"I guess it has to be." I sigh. He looks at me for a minute and then smiles.

"Say it again, Jimmy." He says, rolling into a more comfortable position. I lay down beside him. "Just do it alright?"

"I love you." I say at last. This is not a good idea. I should not be doing this. This is really stupid.

"I love you too," he says and even though I've been waiting to hear him say that forever, it just doesn't seem right. Something is very wrong here.


	7. love and hate

"I don't know you anymore  
I don't recognize this place  
The picture frames have changed and so has your name  
We don't talk much anymore  
We keep running from the pain  
But what I wouldn't give to see your face again," Darren Hayes and Daniel Jones

"I can't believe you just said that. An hour—this morning—you said—you told me . . ." I swear, he does this just to get to me. House stares past me to the wall.

"I know what I said, but that is what you wanted to hear wasn't it? I mean isn't that why you told me, right? You wanted me to say it back?"

"I told you that I love you because it is the truth. Of course I want you to say it back to me, but I want you to mean it and frankly I thought it would be good for you to hear that. To know that." When he doesn't say anything, there's a minute where I', sure he fell asleep, not listening or caring, about what I said. Then he sort of grunts and looks back at me.

"You don't expect me to _thank_ you or something like that, do you Jimmy?" he asks looking my right in the eyes

"No. I've giving up expecting things from you. I just thought you should know, that it might . . . Oh what's the point? You don't care!" He actually looked hurt by that. Well not quiet hurt but—the thing is sometimes he . . .I don't know. Sometimes he just sort of—. He looks away after a while. I watch him carefully as he reaches for something on the nightstand. I can feel myself clenching and my lips curling into a snarl. But he doesn't take the pills. He was going for the water glass.

"I—you know just because you think you know mean, doesn't mean that you do. I like you. I like being with you. I'm not sure," he trails off and I know I shouldn't push him but I do.

"You're capable of more than that. I know you are. I just need something—anything. Because, I can't keep putting myself through this." He looks both pained an angry. "You don't get to be the victim this time, Greg."

"You're pretty much doing whatever you can to insure that I AM the victim. I'll be completely honest."

"There's got to be a first. You're never completely honest. All you ever do is lie," I interrupt. I'm sorry as soon as I say it, but it has to be out there.

"Oh shut up. I know I'm not perfect, but neither are you. Nobody is. I don't know what to tell you, except," he stops. I don't man that he pauses or just takes a break. He completely stops, like he has no idea what to say or do. That's when I realize that—he can't say it, but there is something there. I don't know if he's afraid to admit to it or if he's afraid of having something and then loosing it but I know—I've always known—that he's sealed himself up so tightly that he doesn't know (or want to know) how to let someone—me—in. Tears burn the back of my eyes like acid. I fight; trying to keep from crying but in the end my body wins out over my mind.

"I just. I want. Listen, 'cos this is important. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to be here for you weather you want me to or not. You don't need to be afraid that I'm going to walk out on you."

"The only thing I'm afraid of is that you are going to keep crying like that, and that you're going to get snot all over my sheets and stuff." He says with a little laugh. I still—Goddamnit! Why can't I stop crying? I need to stop. "Oh cut that out, NOW." Somehow my body responds more to him than to me. The tears dry up as soon as he says that. I feel sick and scared, but most importantly I'm worried about him.

"I—um—the uh the—the thing is that I um you uh, I'm not—what I'm trying to say is that, I—we— . . ." Stupid, fucking, stuttering fool. What the hell is wrong with me?

"Spit it out," he barks. I close my eyes and try to gather my thoughts. What did I want to tell him? How do I make this work? Is he all right? I mean, for him anyway. I love him, and I can't keep watching him do this to himself. I won't leave. I won't walk out on him; I can't, but I don't know what to do.

"I love you. And I'm not leaving. Ever." I put my hand on his face. He gives me this little half smile, and then looks away. An eternity passes as we lay there, and nothing happens. I put an arm around him, and pull his body close to mine.

"I'm sorry," he admits at last. "I don't know what else to say. I don't know how I feel, or even how I'm supposed to feel. You are right, I think. I guess that's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?"

"No. It's not. But at least we're getting somewhere, maybe. I don't know. I'm not sure that I know any more about this than you do. I'm scared. And I need—I want to know that I'm not alone in that. I don't think you're going to say anything either way, but it would. I think it would help if we both lay all of our cards on the table. I know how much you like those metaphors of yours."

"That's not exactly a metaphor you know. If it is, it's a bad one. Well I guess we can work on that. I don't—I—all right. You win. I—this is. This isn't easy, not for me, and I'm. I don't know what to say. Besides. I think you've already seen my cards." He winks.

"You're a real moron sometimes, you ought to know that." He starts to laugh now. "What? What is so funny, House?"

"If you're in love with a moron, what does that say about you? All right it was a cheep shot; don't give me that look. It's true, though. You probably already know everything about me that you already want to know, don't you?"

"I just, yeah. I don't know what I want, but I think . . .I think we're all right. Just don't ever do anything that stupid again, okay? No more personal medical trials, or I'll kill you or beat you up so badly that migraines and your leg are gonna be the least of your problems. Got it?"

"I don't need to do it again. I got him back. Everything is even now, so, you don't need to worry about me. Well maybe a little, but no more than usual, okay? Good. And James," he whispers at last, yawning. "I think. What I said before. I meant it. At least, I think I did."

"What are you talking about, Greg? You've said a lot of things today. You're breaking one of your own rules." I know what he means, but I want to hear him say it again. I'm just not sure if this is going to work or not. He might say it, or he might just be House-like and fuck around with me.

"Oh shut up, would you? Can we go five minutes without having a serious conversation? I'm tired. And I need you to go into the other room for about five minutes." I know he's having a bad day, and I know how much pain he's in. I can see it just looking at him, and it hurts me to see him hurting so much, but this can't keep happening.

"No."

"No? Fine. Sit here; stay here; lay down. Do whatever the hell you want, but don't think you can stop me. Oh come on. Don't look at me like that. It's one pill. And it hurts, we've dealt with enough shit today let's not try and tackle everything at once. Okay?"

I want him to stop. He has to stop. And maybe one day I can make him stop, but he's got a point. God it's been a long day. What else could I say?

"Just wait another hour, please? I know; I know, and I'm sorry, but please. For me, if you—just wait, a little bit, for me." Suddenly I feel as though my entire life depends upon what he says yes. We basically have two options. Either he says okay and he waits we'll be okay, but if he doesn't . . .I don't know. He just stays there, thinking things over, looking at me and looking at the pills, his eyes darting back and forth. Seconds tick on sticking for hours. I feel like we've been in this bed for days and then he opens his mouth.

"Forty minutes, and only because it's you." I think that's the best I could hope for with him, and it is a start. I think we're going to be alright.


End file.
